


thank God for the day I heard your name

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, laughs nervously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:01:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1908540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re sure the worst part is that you can <i>feel</i> it as it happens; it starts with fond amusement and escalates to dreams you’d rather not talk about and you’ve stared at the summer night-sky and thought about Lev like you’ve thought about home. You wish the stars would fall right down and shoot you where he’s burrowed his heart against yours and Haiba Lev is a <i>problem</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thank God for the day I heard your name

The thing is, you don’t _mean_ for it to happen. One day you’re fixed safely in a world void of tall, half-Russians and the next, Nekoma is stuck with a two-meter giant who’s more like an infant than a teenager. Kuroo turns to you, the bastard, all smirk and sly eyes as he introduces you to Haiba Lev. He drops a hand on your shoulder as the team mills excitedly at your turned back, eyeing the newest addition who’s allegedly written ACE in bold letters on his clubform.

“Yaku,” he says, the ridiculous front-tuft of his hair brushing your ear. “Keep an eye on him.”

“Sure,” you say, and smile amiably at the tallest first-year you’ve ever seen, which is saying a lot since _you play competitive volleyball_. His legs put him up somewhere in the stratosphere and you have to crane your neck just to look at the nervous lines of his face. “I’m Yaku Morisuke.”

And you sell your soul.

…                                                      

It’s not an immediate thing. There’re loans and there’re monthly payments that slowly but surely add to a cost you’re unwilling to fork out just yet. You’re sure the worst part is that you can _feel_ it as it happens; it starts with fond amusement and escalates to dreams you’d rather not talk about and you’ve stared at the summer night-sky and thought about Lev like you’ve thought about home. You wish the stars would fall right down and shoot you where he’s burrowed his heart against yours and Haiba Lev is a _problem_.

…

“Yaku-san.”

You’re walking out of the clubroom, picking at the collar of your shirt and wishing summer weren’t so hot, when a shadow throws itself over you. “Hi, Lev.” Maybe you can forgive his height if he continues to be a source of shade.

“Could you help me? With my receives?” He bends so that he’s at eyelevel and you will never, _ever_ forgive his height. Your kick connects solidly with his bony shin and you straighten with a grin, the unnatural curve of it twitching in time with the angry throb of your pulse.

“If you make it worth my effort,” you say, relenting as you’re prone to do, and Lev brightens instantly, forgetting the bruise you hope is forming. He follows you obediently to the gym and sticks to your side as you stretch. Kuroo notices and pops his thumbs up with a smile that slides dangerously close to a leer. You ignore him and call the count, and if your voice is louder than usual, you’re the last to notice.

…

Training after the summer camp turns brutal.

The city’s streets are riddled with hazy mirages, the heat like oil in the air, shifting and oven-hot in your throat, and the team’s taken to practicing in the early morning and late evenings. You’re not a fan of pre-noon exercising, even if it’s cooler than post, and by the wide yawns cracking his jaw, neither is Lev. While you hand out the food you’d brought for the team, he dozes serenely against the gym’s wall. Even Yamamoto and Inuoka’s fresh eagerness isn’t enough to wake him, a miracle in and of itself. You eye Lev carefully, strangely attentive to the rise and fall of his chest, and snag a drooling and yipping Inuoka by the collar of his shirt.

“Be _quiet_ ,” you hiss, before you can think it over, and Inuoka jumps. You let go, focusing still on Lev’s long-limbed fold, and pretend you don’t sense the team’s stunned surprise. It’s the first red flag and you’re starting to understand how helpless you are to the slack peace on Lev’s face.

You chuck the bag of buns and the brown paper slaps exactly where you want it (between his closed eyes). Kuroo calls for a warmup, tossing the words like a safety-line onto which you hastily grab hold. Crisis-mode hums adrenaline-touched in your veins and Haiba Lev is a _problem_.

…

“A piggy-back ride?” You almost drop the water bottles you’d been collecting and stare, slack-mouthed, at Lev’s ominous grin. Coach is outside or in his office and you _knew_ there was trouble brewing in his absence.

“Why not?” Kuroo calls, draping himself over an immobile Kenma. He yawns and Kenma shifts his hold on his phone, long since used to furniture-duty.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you say, and turn away from the disappointed fall of Lev’s face. It prickles somewhere at the back of your mind, insistent, and you’re actually feeling _guilty_. “I’d probably hit my head on the doorframe, or something.”

“Lev’s tall, Yaku, but you’re so-“ Yamamoto begins, but you pin him with an acidic glare.

“Maybe next time,” Shibayama says to Lev, soft enough you can barely hear it. You tighten your grip on the bottles and slip out of the gym, the placating lilt of his voice raising something bitter under your tongue, and you’re swimming in red flags.

…

It’s a practice game, so it’s not steeped in do-or-die tension, but the loss still cuts too close to the quick for complacency. You herd the last of the exhausted and discouraged team onto the bus and follow after, patting shoulders and offering kind words as you walk down the aisle. You’re nearly too tired to haul your bag into the overhead and it must show, because someone grabs the other strap as you lift.

“Thanks,” you say, smiling a bit ruefully, and Lev shrugs and folds himself back into his seat. His light hair’s mussed and wet, still, and the unhappy flat of his mouth prods mercilessly at your heart.

“You did well.” You sit, sinking into the cushioned seat and rubbing the places where tomorrow’s bruises will bloom, and study Lev from beneath your eyelashes. It’s true—he’s improved enough by now that his height isn’t the only useful thing about him. He’d still cost the team points with thoughtless mistakes, but the extra practices have left their mark with notable progress.

“We still lost,” he mumbles, chin dipped almost into his chest, and you nod. His eyes smolder frustrated anger, but you’re glad; loss fortifies and your determination is half built off of it, and Lev’s will rise from the same foundations, too.

“Then we’ll get better.” You close your eyes and lean your head against the rest, more upset than you’ve let on, because if only you had been _faster_ \- “I’ll help you,” you say, and you hold it like a resolution.

 “You already help me a lot.”

Your eyes snap open and you turn, blinking, but Lev’s already leant against the bus window. The engine growls to life and the evening sun hangs red at the horizon, warm against your cold skin, its light slanting and flaring across the quiet pause of your team. Tokyo suburbs pass soundlessly by while you parse the slow warmth building in your chest.

“I try,” you murmur, and roll your shoulders. You will always try, probably, and the realization doesn’t scare you as much as you’d thought it would.

…

“I’m really, _really_ sorry, Yaku-san.”

You rub the side of your head and curl up into a slouch, breathing hard through the empty vacuum of your lungs and blinking away stars. You’re half-worried the court’s hardwood had knocked something vital out of place in your skull, maybe scrambled some neurons, because the gym’s padded walls swim in and out of bleary focus.

“It’s—“ you try to stand and fail, lurching forward onto your usually reliable knees, and the floor is cool against your forehead when they connect. “—fine.”

“Sorry,” Lev says, again, and he really sounds like it, too, so the anger that’d usually be curling your lips dies in infancy; it flutters and simmers down into a nauseas fondness and you’re totally, _completely_ screwed. His hand is flat on your back, long fingers spread and touching your shoulder blades, and someone goes running for ice. 

You swallow another wave of stars and squint through the summer light that falls through the windows. “It was a good spike,” you offer, because you can tell by the stinging lump on the side of your head that it was. Strong enough to throw you to the ground, at least, although you’d wish his aim were better.

“Except for the whole hitting our libero part,” Kuroo mutters, reading your mind. He offers you a hand and between him and Lev, you manage to plant your feet on what you imagine (through the dizzy spin of what was once a stellar sense of balance) is the floor.

“True.” You huff a tactless laugh and let them tote you outside, an arm around each shoulder; for the sake of the little pride you have left, you pretend not to notice how just the toes of your trainers scrape the ground. You’re deposited on the school’s back steps while Shibayama returns with a bag of ice, panting and disconcerted, and if your head weren’t a bucket of sloshing water you’d try to reassure him. Instead, you tuck your head between your knees and groan. “Please don’t ever do that again.”

“Sorry.” Lev’s hovering at your side again, and you wonder if you’re imagining the ghost of a lingering warmth on your back.

“I’m going to see if the nurse is still in,” Kuroo says, and you can hear the smile in his voice, damn him. Your first-year libero protégé proffers the ice and you take it with grateful hands, pressing it to the lump, and go for your best rendition of a calming smile. He pats your shoulder consolingly. “Come with, Shibayama?” The doors open and close, a rush of cooled air curls against your neck, and then it’s just you and Lev.

He sits beside you, a gangly knee knocking alongside yours, and yeah, you’re definitely not imagining his hand over your back. Your mouth lifts into a smile and the world’s steadied somewhat underneath you, summer-warm and golden, and the air’s almost saccharine when you pull a palliative breath.

“It really wasn’t your fault,” you say, aiming for cordial and nonchalant. Your reflexes aren’t working as well as they ought to be, you tell yourself, and conveniently ignore your pre-hit fascination with Lev’s legs.

“It was.” You raise your head enough to glance at the profile of his face and—he’s _red_.

 _He noticed_ , you think, heat crawling up your cheeks, too. _He_ definitely _noticed._ You swallow the embarrassment stuck in your throat and readjust the icepack, wincing as the condensation runs cold down your shirt. There’re moments in life in which you’re meant to take a chance and maybe it’s the head-trauma, but you’re certain this is one.

“You could, um, make it up to me?” The words get caught behind your teeth and you stumble and chew on your tongue. It’s a mirrored version of a conversation you’ve had before and it’s not lost on you.

“Like—“ and Lev’s tripping over himself, too, so you’re feeling a bit more comfortable in your skin. You bite the inside of your cheek to check a budding grin. “—a date?”

You choke and your teeth click together, blood tanging metallic in your mouth. “That’s—not what I meant.” You squeeze your eyes shut and press the ice closer still to your head, the pains of your bitten cheek and volleyball-abused temple like an anchor, and you’re going to persevere even if it kills you.

“Oh-“

“But,” you interrupt (because if you stop now, you’ll never say it). You turn to face Lev, gaze focused on the green of his, and the sunlight slants just right so that his irises burn a backlit neon. You’re still squinting and you’re afraid your smile may look more like a grimace than not, yet: “I’d like that, too.”

“I-“ Lev starts, but he’s cut off by the sudden open swing of the doors. You startle, jostle your sensitive head and neck, and suck in a harsh lungful of air.

“She’s in,” Kuroo says, propping the doors open. You turn and cut a glare at him, attempting chastising, but he catches your pink face and with a sick prickle of dread, you realize you’ve been found out. “You gonna go?”

“Yeah.” You move to stand and pitch sideways, not as steady as you’d thought, but Lev’s there instantly. He twines an arm around your waist like he belongs there and you lean gratefully into it, wondering if maybe he does, knowing that you’ve always thought so, and your head spins, caught in two separate drifts: emotional and physical. You’re making the payment in full, tossing metaphoric cash to the wind, because Haiba Lev is a problem but he’s _yours_ , and that’s all you’ve wanted.

…

He shows up to the restaurant ( _a small thing, a hole-in-the-wall, all warm-wood and long windows_ ) late and spills your tea when he moves to sit opposite of you. It’s a mess and you’re not exactly charmed out of your boots, but the sheepish and true smile on his face rivals the bright sun outside and it’s—enough.

**Author's Note:**

> well- -yakulev is really important.  
> [association song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QsKp3QmQhrI&feature=kp)


End file.
